


get me

by starlight_sugar



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Jossed, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>storming a base is easier said than done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	get me

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for war situations, death, and appropriate violence. this is not a happy fic. written for a prompt on tumblr that basically went "write about one character saving another" from an anonymous person. anon was happy and i liked this enough to crosspost.

It’s utter chaos, beginning to end, when they storm the federal base. It takes months of working, months of training, months of planning and adjusting and scrapping. Grif stayed away from the brunt of it, ducked out of every meeting with Kimball that he could avoid, but that didn’t change that it was happening. He was always going to be part of it, like it or not. He’s known that since Felix showed up, even though he thought it was a fucking stupid idea to put him in charge of a platoon.

But he knows what he’s doing now - he’s an actual soldier, huh, that’s a fucking weird thought - and he’s prepared his troops as best he could. They’re the first wave, with Tucker’s troops, and they all know the implications of being first. They’re going in when the feds are still at full capacity, full artillery, full staff. There’s a very real chance that they won’t walk out.

"That’s where they have Wash," Tucker says grimly.

"And Donut and Sarge," Grif mutters, because hey, he might not always  _like_  his teammates, but they’re in this too.

Tucker nods in acknowledgement and turns to face their troops. There’s probably fifty of them total. Grif knows every name, every face. Out of the ones he trained, he could recite their birthdays, their hobbies, their strengths and weaknesses in drills, their preferred form of alcohol. He knows them. That was a stupid choice on his part.

"Flooding in five," Tucker announces, and pauses. Swallows hard. "Troops. You know your odds of survival. And - thank you. For doing this anyways."

"It’s been a privilege," Grif adds, stepping up next to him. He’s not sure that’s entirely true - Kimball kind of forced him into this, it wasn’t a choice - but the spirit of the statement is still there.

The recruits are still, staring at them, until one of them snaps a salute. “Sirs,” she says (Anna Llewellyn, pronounced ahh-na and don’t forget it, does needlepoint and shots of whiskey in equal measure, the best damn shot the rebels have), “it’s been an honor.”

The rest of the platoon follows suit, each soldier snapping an arm up in quick succession.

"We’re killing these kids," Grif mutters. Tucker looks at him, and he doesn’t need to say anything for Grif to know that they share their guilt.

.

The plan is simple, really. Their platoons storm the grounds in the southwest corner, distract nearly everyone. Caboose and Simmons use distance attacks to take out everyone they can see who doesn’t go to the distraction. And Kimball leads everyone else into the prison camp, frees who they can, and they fight.

"I don’t know," Simmons says nervously, the day before F-Day. "This flooding - is it really going to work? Will they actually be distracted?"

"Possibly not," Kimball allows, "but that’s where you come in."

Caboose raises his hand. “Where are we getting the water for the floods?”

Kimball doesn’t even spare him a glance. “There’s no guarantee that any of this will work, but there’s never a guarantee.”

"We’ll get them back," Tucker says quietly. Grif nods his agreement. Simmons looks at them both skeptically and says nothing.

.

The flood is, in essence, a success. A horribly disastrous success.

Grant and Hayden throw the first grenades, alternating in rapid succession. “Cover,” Tucker says, quiet but carrying, and everyone ducks as the federal artillery explodes.

From then on it’s disorganized and it’s war and it’s easy enough for Grif to lose himself in the chaos. He knows how to fight, and so do his troops, and it’s easy, so  _easy_  to pretend that at the end of this they’ll all be able to laugh it off as Doc and Zucker and anyone else with any medical training patch up their wounds. They’ll be okay.

Grif shoots through a helmet and looks away before he can see the blood. “Time!” he shouts.

"One hour, sir!" Mosco yells back, firing off a few quick rounds. "Sir, the troops-"

"Not now, Mosco!" Grif taps into the communication system. "Beta, FloodOps was a success, enter the fight, repeat, enter the fight."

"Enter!" Caboose screams on the other side. Grif can hear the resulting explosion, feel it shake the ground, and falls flat on his back.

He’s staring into Anna Llewellyn’s eyes. She’s not looking back.

Immediately he scrambles back, feeling bile rise in his throat. She’s still clutching her rifle - God, she’d been so proud of that rifle, she’d customized it so much, and it seems that even with the bullet hole in her right temple that hasn’t changed. Her helmet is lying five feet away, riddled with holes. It’s a miracle that only one bullet actually hit her.

"Fuck," Grif says, distantly aware of his own voice. "Anna.  _Fuck.”_

"Grif!" There’s an arm on his shoulder and it’s Tucker talking, Tucker pulling him upright. He’s clutching his sword and he sounds scared. "Grif, c’mon, you’ve got to keep going, you knew this would happen."

"Anna," he repeats, and he’s a broken record, his brain skipping over the concept of Anna’s vibrancy extinguished. Of course he knew, but that doesn’t mean he was prepared.

"Beta needs back-up. North zone," Tucker says, and Grif stiffens. Simmons. Simmons is in the north zone. "Yeah, that’s what I thought. Take Mosco and Hayden. Keep moving."

Grif turns to Tucker, looks him in the eye - or at least, where he assumes Tucker’s eyes are. “Yes, sir,” he says and it’s hollow but he means it anyways.

"We’re the same fucking rank, dumbass," Tucker says amiably, and nothing changes, does it, nothing changes. "Get out of here."

.

As it turns out, “Beta needs back-up” is code for “shit has hit the fan and you should really haul ass to save them”, which is what Grif does. What he sees nearly makes his heart stop.

He’s lucky enough to show up at the back of the situation, and he immediately holds out a hand to stop Mosco and Hayden. Gripping his shotgun, he slowly moves up the hill, keeping his eyes on the situation in front of him.

There are feds everywhere, definitely more than there are rebels. Of Simmons’s twenty-five troops Grif can see twelve bodies, seven still upright, doesn’t want to think about the other eight. The seven that are alive are lined up, kneeling, hands behind their heads. There are easily two dozen green suits of armor behind them, all armed.

Directly in front of them - and in front of Grif - is a man in gray armor holding a pistol to the back of Simmons’s helmet-less head.

Grif’s mind is whirling. He needs to act  _now._  ”Hayden,” he whispers into the comm, “go around back. Stay out of sight but get behind the greens.”

"Yes, sir," Elizabeth Hayden whispers. Her voice is trembling. Her girlfriend is in Simmons’s squad, Grif remembers, sudden and violent. The odds are in favor of her being dead.

"Mosco," Grif continues, "go with her. Actually, go in front of her, you’re our first line of defense. And weapons ready, both of you. It’s about to get fucking crazy."

Ulrich Mosco grunts into the comm. He doesn’t talk much. It reminded Grif of the Meta at first, but he knows better now.

"Sync," Grif says quietly, hears it in the comm, hears them moving behind him. He slowly steps forward.

The gray-suit is talking. Grif can hear him as he creeps closer and wishes his armor wasn’t so violently orange so he could get closer without being noticed.

"And for what?" Gray says, and Simmons flinches. The lens of his robotic eye is shattered, and that alone is enough to make Grif see red. "Sixteen dead, two cowards, and seven who are going to die now? What have you  _gained?”_

"My name is Private First Class Richard Simmons," Simmons says, voice strong and steady, and Grif has never been prouder of him. “I’m a rebel soldier of Chorus and I will not surrender.”

"Richard Simmons," Gray repeats. "Let me ask you something, Richard Simmons." He releases the safety on the pistol, and Grif cocks his shotgun in preparation. "Why are you here?"

It’s too good, too fucking good to resist, and Grif grins behind his helmet. “You wonder that too?” he calls out conversationally. Gray whips around, and Grif shoots him neatly between the eyes. Bullseye. “Mosco!” he shouts.

"Yes, sir!" Mosco yells, and two of the greens behind Simmons’s troops collapse with small knives in their backs. The rest leap into action and conveniently form a small mob - ideal for throwing grenades into.

"Hayden, go! Beta, clear the floor!" Grif yells. All of Simmons’s soldiers - Tala Burke is there, he notes with some relief, and Hayden has probably seen her by now too - scramble away from the mob as Hayden pulls the pin and throws. "Take them down, take them!"

"For the new republic!" Tala screams, and Elizabeth screams it right back at her.

Satisfied that the situation is under control for at least a couple minutes, Grif runs up the remainder of the hill and falls to his knees next to Simmons. “Simmons, hey, hey, you okay?”

Simmons blinks up at him, hard. His mechanical shoulder is dented, and Grif’s heart aches for him. “Grif?” he says dazedly. “That shot -  _you?”_

"Me," Grif confirms, trying to smile like he hadn’t almost just witnessed the world ending. He pulls off his helmet without thinking so he can meet Simmons’s eyes - the working one, at least. "Jesus, did they storm you or something? That was pretty bad."

"You saved my life," Simmons says, and there’s something odd to his voice.

"Well, yeah." Grif shrugs. "I mean, you’ve saved mine before."  _And I didn’t save Anna Llewellyn,_  he does not say.  _I couldn’t not save you too,_  he does not say.  _I can’t lose you,_  he does not say.

Simmons stares at him, makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and launches himself forward. Grif catches him, wraps an arm around his back as Simmons kisses him, hard and ruthless and  _alive._

"Mmph," Grif says, and promptly finds his footing and pushes back into the kiss. Alive, he thinks, alive, alive, alive. He clutches Simmons against him tighter and why, why did it take so long and so many near-misses and near-losses for this to happen, why haven’t they done this yet? They fit and it’s so  _simple._

"Grif!" A tinny voice explodes out of Grif’s neglected comm, and Grif rolls his eyes and pulls back just enough. It’s Tucker’s voice. "Status!"

"Private Grif is busy making out with Private Simmons, sir," Hayden says over the comm, and now it’s Simmons who rolls his eyes. "They’re a little busy."

"Oh," Tucker says. He pauses. "Well, we’re about to storm the prison building, ask them if they want to come with."

"Want to go with?" Grif murmurs, glancing up at Simmons.

Simmons grins back. “Let’s get our sergeant back.”

**Author's Note:**

> i've gotten a few people saying they really liked the ocs. if you'd like to see more of them they now have a tag on my tumblr! just go to rictors.tumblr.com/tagged/get-me and check out all the cool stuff about them and the 'verse in general.


End file.
